Phantom
by The-MarmaladeCat1
Summary: Dearka and Yzak have served Zaft faithfully for 50 years, when is it ever time to move on? [DeaYza]


Written for DeaYza's 20 themes. No.13, Phantom.

Set 40-50 years after the end of GSD. (Uhm, major spoilers like whoa)

* * *

--Phantom

"Sir?"

The captain's eyes slide open and focus on the overhead display. Adjusting his grip on the arms of his command chair he takes a deep, slow breath and nods to the expectant young officer at his side.

"Take her down, lieutenant."

The young man salutes smartly, snapping to attention and barks the command to descend. Captain Dearka Elthman tries to hide his wince and fails. He would ask when they began taking them on so young, but already memory provides him with an answer he does not want to hear. Instead he shakes his head slightly at the youthful enthusiasm in the boy's voice and swears to himself that he never sounded that brainwashed. Again, memory shakes her sorrowful head and with a frown the Captain pushes himself to his feet and nods to the boy.

"You have command, McKenzie," he says, brushing past the other to head towards the lift. "I'll be in my quarters."

As the lift door whisks shut he can see the bridge crew still stood to attention saluting him and he wonders when he became such a hero to so many. Folding his arms over his chest he leans back wearily on the handrail and stares fixedly at the floor.

oOo

Yzak is waiting for him when he gets back to his quarters. He's sat in his customary place at Dearka's desk, hunched over a datapad, a tight frown pinching at his features. He doesn't look up as Dearka enters, his eyes flicking over the lines of text with casual Coordinator speed.

"I'll tell you one thing," Dearka says by way of greeting, "The kids they send us are getting younger."

Yzak snorts softly, "You're just getting older."

Dearka mumbles something under his breath and flings his uniform jacket onto the bed. Kicking his shoes off he pads over to the kettle he has in his small kitchen area and flicks it on. Leaning back on the wall as he waits for it to boil he gazes over at his companion.

"Good book?" he asks finally.

"Hn…have you seen these?" Yzak replies thoughtfully. Dearka pushes himself away from the wall just as the kettle clicks off and crosses to stand at his friend's shoulder. "Bloody gorgeous," Yzak continues. "Twin phase-oscillating laser-shield generators, 40DCK combined voltage transwave backing unit, 500 gigadems of thruster power…it's even running a Regacore 9000 OS."

Dearka makes a sound of appreciation in the back of his throat, "She's a beauty all right."

"Phantom X-930," Yzak's voice is soft and awed. "Artemis class battleship. Top of the range flagship vessel. And to think, they'll be giving her to those bloody kids of yours."

Dearka's laugh is sharp and tinged with bitterness. "Well, they're not going to let me loose with her without you around to keep me in line!"

Yzak watches him cross back to the kettle and pour himself a mug of black coffee. His eyes are calm and thoughtful when Dearka turns back to look at him, but there is no pity there. Dearka winces slightly and frowns down into his mug. "Yeah…well. Anyway. We dock in about six hours. I was going to grab a shower and then lie back for a couple of hours. I'm not looking forward to the bloody decommissioning ceremony for this ship, I don't think I can take all the teary-eyed brats."

One silver eyebrow raises slightly. "They've served with us for a very long time, some of them," he replies softly.

"Yeah…they just. I dunno. I just find it embarrassing sometimes. You know, the hero worship. Gets to me."

"Don't let it," Yzak says softly. "It's not our fight anymore."

Dearka looks up at him sharply, surprise widening his eyes. Yzak tilts his head and looks at him out of the corner of one eye, a single eyebrow rising again.

"I just…never expected you to say that, is all," Dearka says eventually, voice low and hushed.

"It's time to move on," Yzak replies, voice hard and certain. Feeling suddenly defeated, Dearka does not press the matter. Slowly finishing his coffee he sets the mug to one side to be washed and takes himself away for a shower. The steaming water does nothing to wash away the dismal gloom that has taken hold of him, even when he turns his face into the spray and lets it wash down over his cheeks. There is a deep, gnawing pain lodged deep inside his heart, a dull ache that simply will not go away and he thinks sadly to himself that now it is there, he may never quite be rid of it again.

Later, showered and fed on quick scraps thrown together from past meals, he puts himself to bed. Turning himself to face the wall he pushes his head deep into the pillow and closes his eyes. It is not long before he feels Yzak slide beneath the covers beside him, one pale arm slipping round his chest to embrace him from behind.

Dearka smiles and voice-commands the lights off, leaving them in silent, concealing darkness.

oOo

There are tears in the eyes of the officers around him, but Dearka does not notice, busy as he is maintaining the dryness of his own eyes. He'd promised himself that he wouldn't shed any tears, show any pain, but it's hard, so hard and there's a distinct tightness in his throat as he stands and looks up at the graceful arcing form of the ship that he has served on for the past thirty-eight years.

The Phantom X-900, in one incarnation after another, for almost the entirety of he and Yzak's military careers, has been the flagship vessel of Neo-Zaft. All the way up from the first X-740 vessel given to Yzak when Lacus Clyne made him her general all those years ago.

She's standing there before the assembled crew now, her gentle, watchful eyes on his face, here in person for this final gathering. Her husband is not on stage with her, Kira rarely shows himself for ceremonies such as this, but Dearka knows that he will be in the wings somewhere, waiting.

Lacus' words are soft but clear, her voice reaching all the way to the back of the vast hangar; a function of her career as both singer and public speaker he supposes. He focuses on the words, as if by breaking them down into a simple string of syllables he can rob them of their impact. Around him, his officers sit, backs straight with pride and trembling, deep-felt emotion.

Sacrifice. Honour. Duty. A deep and heartfelt thanks for all that they have done, all that they have stood for, defended and cherished in their lifetime of service. He avoids her eyes throughout. Lacus comes to the end of her speech and the band they've brought in to play for the ceremony launches into a slow, mournful, military piece and taking the cue, the crew of the decommissioned Phantom stand and salute their vessel.

Beside him, Yzak rises to his feet too, saluting smartly, his general's cap tucked neatly beneath one arm. Dearka mirrors the movement and stares ahead as one by one, the lights illuminating the Phantom are extinguished.

oOo

The Jule mansion is silent and cold.

Dusk has passed into true night by the time the figure makes its way up the drive to stand hesitantly before the front door. The bag he clutches in one hand is light and compact, containing only the bare essentials. The couriers will deliver what little else there was from his old quarters on the Phantom. Fishing in one pocket he pulls out his key and fits it into the old-fashioned lock. Sensors inside scan the chip it contains and the mechanism opens with a smooth click. Removing his hat, still clad in dress uniform from the ceremony earlier, he pushes the door open.

The hallway is dark and cold, no-one has turned on the central heating yet and he glances around, hand reaching for a light switch. Light floods the hall, running in golden rivulets across polished oak floors and curving antique furniture. The place smells of wood polish and dried flowers. Pulling the door closed behind him, he glances around.

The hallway is familiar, but it's been a long time, between one thing and another since he has stood here. It is a long moment that he takes to simply breathe in the scent of the mansion and allow the memory of the place to embrace him. It's a bittersweet feeling as the old memories stir and it tightens his throat with painful familiarity.

Shaking his head, he brushes a hand across his face to clear away the memories that surface, touching his mind with old and silken fingertips. He thinks to himself that if he breaks here, on the very threshold of this place, barely a step along the path of his new existence, then he has damned himself already.

The thick rugs soften his footsteps as he crosses the hall and he remembers running here as a child and falling face-first into their soft embrace, feet tangled in themselves and thin air. Childishness and careless freedom. He and Yzak, together even at that young and foolish age. He supposes they can at least thank their families for that small grace.

He passes through the dining room with its huge mahogany table, still polished to a warm glow and he hears again Yzak's mother reprimanding them for playing cards on the table and not using a cloth to protect the wood from their counters. He smiles a little sadly, Yzak and he never played games much as adults – both of them in their own way too proud to lose. Besides which, Yzak played with skill and Dearka played with luck, and Dearka rarely lost. Except by choice and that choice very quickly became a routine.

He supposed it had started right about then, the history of his giving in. He never could say no to Yzak. Except that one time; that painful, sharp, _magnificent_ time when revelation burnt them both with its glory. That led to Yzak holding a gun to his best friend's head and his best friend shrugging and smiling and so very calmly walking away.

He always came back though. One way or another, they always came home.

He would add 'to each other' on the end of that trailing thought, but even for him the sentimentality is too much and he shakes his head at himself and passes through this room and into the next. It is the secondary sitting room, the smaller, more cosy one that Dearka thinks of as their own. The chairs here are plush and comfy and to sit back in them is to be lost in their enfolding embrace.

The huge granite fireplace is cold and empty, the thick sheepskin rug spread before it like a lounging animal. He has fond memories of that particular rug. Of Yzak's eyes, blue and sparkling in the firelight, his body soft smoothness beneath Dearka's own, his hands tangled in the other man's hair and the sweet, rapturous pleasure of fulfilment.

Good memories. He will have to light that fire again tonight.

Yzak is waiting for him in the conservatory. He's perched on the edge of the window seat, silhouetted slender and gorgeous against the backdrop of the valley's glow. Dearka stands in the doorway, feeling the chill of the tiles and glass in the air and watches, taking in the sweeping view of the landscape dropping away to the city below. With a smile of welcome, Yzak turns to him, silver hair pulled back into a ponytail so casual and full of intimacy that Dearka thinks he must be the only one to have ever seen it.

"Welcome home," Yzak says softly and Dearka's answering smile is full of sadness and the unbearable weight of memory.

oOo

It's been a week since he came to the Jule Mansion, _his_ mansion too as Yzak has so often reminded him – For god's sake, Dearka, I've told you enough times now. It's ours, just call it home will you? Bastard! – and this will be the first time that he has thought to go out to the city.

Dearka would deny that he knew the reason why if he let himself. But even he can see that closeting himself away in a hillside mansion for weeks on end is not reflecting well on his sanity. He almost couldn't care, but he can feel Yzak's eyes on him, narrowed and disapproving. And so, donning a light jacket to protect himself from Plant's winter play-act, he rouses himself from his self-pity and sets off for the town below.

The streets are crowded with people, just as they always have been and Dearka spends an hour or so just wandering along the familiar pavements, idly window-shopping and listening to the chatter around him. He's looking in at a display of digital cameras when a familiar snatch of melody catches at the edge of his hearing. Turning, he looks up at one of the huge overhead screens on the side of the surrounding buildings and shock stops him cold.

It's a public news report of a military ceremony, a podium of important people superimposed on which is a scrolling text with brief captions describing the event for the viewers. The scene shows rows of saluting Neo-Zaft military, stood proudly to attention as the huge, sleek form of an Artemis class battleship slides past behind them. The Phantom X-930, the army's newest flagship.

Of course, he'd known about the ceremony, he'd even had an invite signed by Lacus herself along with a personal note in her delicate handwriting. He'd torn them both up in a fit of rare fury and not-so-rare self-pity. The retirement ceremony had been bad enough, he could not have endured the pain of watching mere children take what should have been his out into space in his place.

But here, now, overcome by the striking beauty of the cutting-edge vessel, he watches in breathless appreciation as it begins its first journey amongst the stars.

Lips hardening into a tight smile, Dearka turns to walk away and almost walks straight into Yzak who has appeared silently at his side. Embarrassed, he opens his mouth to speak, make an excuse for his gloom, but a voice cuts across his own, loud and insistent.

"Hey…sir? Aren't you..? That is, I mean…you're Captain Elthman, aren't you, sir?"

Caught off balance, Dearka half turns to look and then has to adjust his gaze downwards to meet the eyes of the youth staring wide-eyed up at him.

"Uh..yeah," he says, a little dumbly. "What?"

"I thought it was you! I was just watching the overheads and I noticed you and I thought it can't be him! But it is! Sir, I can't tell you how proud I am to meet you!" The words are spilling from the boy's mouth in a rush and Dearka has to resist the urge to hold up his hands and slow the boy down.

"I know you must be very busy, sir, so I just wanted to say…well, thank you. For everything. All the way back from the beginning, because you've saved us all so many times and if it wasn't for heroes like you, Zaft wouldn't exist and Chairwoman Clyne might even be dead. We're all so proud of you, sir. And…one day, I, well yeah. Anyway. I just wanted to say thank you, sir, because even though I know I'm young, I can still see what you did and you're a true inspiration, sir."

The boy bows low to Dearka and he is left staring at the top of the youth's head in mingled shock and embarrassment. Whipping upright again, he salutes smartly and with a huge grin, vanishes back into the crowd. Amazed and dumbstruck, Dearka stares open-mouthed after him. Around him, passing adults who have heard the boy's words smile and one woman gives him a quick wink. It almost breaks his heart and it is all he can do to keep a small, polite smile on his face.

It's been a long time since anyone actually put voice to such an opinion. He knows his reputation amongst the Council, one of Zaft's dubious reclaimed traitors, always in the General Jule's shadow where he should be. Yzak's faithful second-in-command. No more, no less.

Dearka has always known that he has the loyalty of his own crew, united with him under the General's command, and he knows that they see the truth of his spirit, even if that truth is only that which they want to see. But they see honour, loyalty and courage and that's good enough for him. For others to see it too overwhelms him. Especially when he so often doubts it himself.

Yzak is watching him closely, his gaze level and appraising. Dearka meets that gaze steadily and something in his chest finally loosens. Stuffing his hands in his pockets he sighs.

"Let's go home, babe," he says, and Yzak smiles.

oOo

Later that night, some time past midnight, Dearka lies on his back on the giant sheepskin rug, watching the patterns the glowing firelight makes on the ceiling. The thick rug is so soft beneath his back he can hardly feel the wood of the floor below. Yzak lies beside him, stretched out on his side, head propped up on one arm.

There are thoughts in Dearka's head, too many of them, and even at this late hour with the night pressing dark and eyeless against the windows he cannot still them. It has been a long, quiet evening and now he's pleasantly warm and tired, even if it is a fatigue born of his constant fretting. He thinks to himself that he should just stop thinking, that if he could just sink into the glow of firelight and vanish within its haze, he could be free. He certainly doesn't believe firelight thinks all that much. It might be nice not to think anymore.

The room is filled only with the soft sound of his breathing and the sputter and crackle of the fire. The light is a beautiful, dull gold in the corner of his eyes, and the warmth feels like the sun on his face, the sun he remembers from campaigns long past in a place so very alien and far away. It's all just memories; muted, hushed, and low.

All the anger and the pain and the glory don't seem to mean as much as they used to. It all somehow seems to have been so much effort to attain a goal hiding itself out of reach in the curve of a never-ending cycle. Fight and suffer and die, no-one ever gets to live, not really. Unless of course they count the fight as living. Yzak thinks, _fought_, like that.

Dearka closes his eyes against the firelight and sighs a long, slow breath.

"Is it just me, Yzak?" he asks softly, "or have we mellowed in our old age?"

He doesn't hear the other man reply and so he opens his eyes and turns his head to look. Yzak's eyes are shadowed and dark, but he can see the curve of a smile on his lips.

"No, idiot," Yzak replies, "it's just you."

And Dearka smiles.

oOo

It's a pale imitation of an Earth winter morning when Athrun Zala comes to pay Dearka Elthman a visit. The environment controls for this region have been set to a brisk chill and there is excited rumour that the City Council is going to stage a three day period of snow in the next couple of weeks to honour the festive season.

Ambassador Zala stands on the doorstep to the Jule mansion and shivers in the unaccustomed chill. When Dearka opens the door to him the other man is looking back down the drive at the road that curves down to the city below. He turns back to Dearka, apparently startled by the opening of the door and almost, but not quite -for this is after all Athrun Zala- stutters his greeting.

Dearka of course has known for a while that this meeting was coming. The Ambassador had been unable to attend the Phantom's decommissioning ceremony and the subsequent apologetic letters had made it abundantly apparent to him that a home visit from his long time acquaintance was inevitable. It isn't so much that Dearka minds, he and Zala have by necessity of their stations seen a fair amount of each other over the years, even if they no longer share the same level of friendship that they had enjoyed so very many decades ago. It is more the subtle embarrassment that he feels hanging over him as he regards Athrun stood on his doorstep, so calm, successful and influential he can suddenly understand all too well Yzak's intense disgust for the man.

Nonetheless, he invites him inside. Even if he isn't particularly at ease around the man, he still maintains the polite civility that station and years of Jule eccentricity has ingrained in him. He takes him through to the conservatory overlooking the valley, ignoring Yzak's eye rolling as they enter, and sits him down comfortably in one of the chairs before vanishing to muster tea. When he returns Athrun is sat staring out at the view, Yzak perched on the windowsill watching silently in the other direction.

Dearka sighs and pours tea.

They talk about small things, travel, friends and family; easy mundane topics to pass the time through nervous fingers until finally they make their way around to the reason behind Athrun's visit. It is of course, Athrun who reaches the topic first, it is not something Dearka would ever mention himself.

"How are you?"

Dearka stares into his teacup and savours the absolute silence with masochistic patience.

"I'm…sorry, Dearka. I know it must be hard. The Phantom has been your life for, well, for a long time."

"Mmm," Dearka replies noncommittally and takes a measured sip of his tea. He doesn't look over at Yzak, sitting statuesque on the windowsill, glaring icy daggers at the back of Athrun's head. He doesn't think he could bear the sight.

"Lacus tried you know, to sway the Council. But they're stubborn. And for all their talk of the future and of democracy and potential, they're as set in their ways and their prejudices as any other human being." Athrun sighs quietly. "It's not a reflection on you, we all know that. It's just that the Council feels that it cannot be seen to let-"

"A known traitor become General of its fleet?" Dearka finishes for him, pale eyes flicking up to lock with and hold the other man's. "For Christ's sake, Athrun, it was years ago and we were on the right bloody side anyway!"

The words are a sharp surprise, ringing in the silence of the room and Dearka watches in terrible frustration as Athrun's eyes soften from shock to sympathy.

"No pity, Zala," Dearka grates. "I can't take your damned pity."

The silence stretches.

"I'm not giving you, pity, Captain," Athrun replies eventually. "I'm giving you this."

Reaching inside his pocket, he pulls out a small data-chip and sets it quietly on the table between them.

"What is that?"

"An offer."

Dearka's eyes move from the small ORB logo on the chip up to Athrun's face, intent and serious and he shakes his head slightly in query.

"There's more than one army in need of a general," Athrun says softly.

They finish their tea in silence, the chip lying untouched on the table between them. Finally, Athrun sets down his cup and rises to his feet. "Just think about it," he says.

Dearka gives no sign that he has heard and Athrun sighs, picking his coat up from where it is draped across a nearby chair. He crosses to the door, leaving Dearka sitting still, teacup in one hand. Halting suddenly, he looks back over his shoulder.

"It wasn't your fault you know. You didn't do it. You couldn't have stopped it. If Yzak were alive today, he'd want you to go on. Just think about it. I think he'd approve."

Dearka closes his eyes and in the silence of the house he hears Athrun's retreating footsteps and the soft click of the front door easing shut behind him. It takes him a long time to bring his breathing back under control and when finally he does the tightness in his throat almost chokes him anyway.

In his mind he sees fire again, and hears harsh, broken breathing and the fragments of a sentence that drowns in blood and never finishes.

"What do you think, love?" he whispers.

Yzak's reply is laughing and soft. "It's your fight, Dearka," he replies. "Go live it."

Dearka reaches out blindly and his hand closes around the chip on the table. It bleeps softly as his palm presses on the activation key and unconsciously he tightens his grip.

"Of course," he whispers. "I'll always love you, babe."

When he opens his eyes, the house is silent and he is alone.


End file.
